


The Rook

by b berry (skittidyne)



Series: Of Rooks And Rams [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Abuse, Animal Metaphors, Blood and Violence, Cannibalism, Character Death, Desert Island, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Monsters, Starvation, Story within a Story, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-15 19:23:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11812596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skittidyne/pseuds/b%20berry
Summary: It all started with the Rook.Michael's just worried it'll all end with the Rook, too.





	1. Because There's Beauty In The Breakdown

**Author's Note:**

> hi, y'all. this is my original project, the first book in a trilogy. it and the second book have already been completed. [please read here for more information](http://skittidyne.tumblr.com/post/124856101552) about how to obtain the books and a lil more information about the plot than i'm using for the summary here.
> 
> only the first three chapters will be posted of this online here. (i kept the chapter count just for accuracy's sake.) this is so you can get a real taste of the story and plotline. also, because i love sharing my writing, and also because i love cliffhangers. i'm always this kind. 
> 
> please pay attention to the tags.

It all started with the rook.

“Excuse me,” he interrupted uncertainly, adjusting his glasses with a nervous smile, “Don’t you mean it started with the _shipwreck_?”

“No, it started with the rook, it all started with the rook! Nothing was wrong before the rook everything was normal dark but normal but the rook made things wrong and he—”

“Calm down! Please.” The psychologist adjusted his glasses again, using the movement to try to surreptitiously wipe sweat from his brow. This patient was new, and he was nervous because of it. His tension wasn’t missed, however. He felt the glare. “I believe you. Did the rook come before or after the shipwreck?”

“…After.”

“Tell me about the shipwreck first, then, if you’d please. You can tell me about the rook when you get to… him.”

“Okay. It started with the rook, but before that, the ship went down. I don’t know why it did…” The patient messed with a silver charm bracelet, twirling it around a thin wrist. The psychologist wrote the observation down on his clipboard. “My parents were on the ship. Mom had gotten a lifejacket for herself and for me. I think dad had one, too, but he lost his—maybe he gave it away—he’d do that—”

“Take a deep breath, and then continue.”

The order was followed. “Dad was telling us to get to the lifeboats. He was going back, but… I don’t know why. I don’t know why any of that had to happen. Why _did_ it have to happen?! We had just wanted to go on a vacation, and instead—”

 

 

Michael Sante was lifted bodily and held out over the edge of the boat. He stared down in terror at the water so far below. The boat lurched and he nearly fell out, but the man helping them into the lifeboat caught him. Heart pounding, he turned back fearfully to where his mother was helping a little girl over the edge.

“Mom.”

One word. One simple word, pathetically called, and that was all the beckoning she needed. Little girl nestled safely into the boat, his mother climbed carefully over the railing and stepped over towards their rescue. Michael leaned against her, taking comfort in her presence beside him. The boat behind them lurched again, this time accompanied by a horrible scraping sound. The flames that had been creeping stealthily along before were now rushing to find more fuel. People started screaming—as if they weren’t before.

The world suddenly got a lot quieter as hands firmly covered his ears. Michael looked up, but his head was turned and buried in his mother’s shoulder instead.

“Where’s dad?” he asked, voice muffled by her shirt.

She took her hands off his ears and instead concentrated on smoothing back his blonde hair from his forehead. “He’ll be coming. He just had to make sure your uncle and aunt were okay.”

The lifeboat hit the water and they started to row away from the sinking ship. Another explosion came, however, and upset the little vessel. Michael’s mother was tipped overboard, inadvertently tugging her son along with her. A couple others were in the water as well, splashing and spluttering. The water wasn’t terribly cold, but it was still hard to breathe in the lifejacket and the sudden shock of it.

Michael turned around, seeing their lifeboat on fire. “Come on, Michael, this way, there’s an island just over there—!” He turned again to where his mother was pointing. The island just over there was far away. Very far away. Just a speck, really, on the horizon. But with the ship on fire and the lifeboat on fire and people screaming and chaos and everything going wrong, so very wrong, he had to swim—

 

 

“Please calm down,” he insisted, almost begged. The patient took a deep breath and tried to stop the hands connected to the jingling, silver charm bracelet from shaking. It wasn’t the other way around; it was the hands that were connected to the bracelet, not the bracelet connected to the hands. The wrist existed to support the hands to continue twirling the bracelet. The psychologist cleared his throat (and his mind), glanced down at the clipboard, and tried again to detach himself from the patient. He said softly, “Why don’t we talk about something else right now? You can tell me about the shipwreck later. Tell me about your vacation up until that point.”

“It was… fun. We took a flight to Florida, and that’s where the ship left from. It was really warm and I spent a lot of time on the deck. I hadn’t ever been on a ship before.” The words seemed forced, contrived, mechanical. The patient was still calming down, though, so the psychologist tried not to dwell on that. “…I had met them on the ship. Tuesday and Mr. Silvermin. I had stood on the railing next to Tuesday when we first left, and we sat at the same table as Mr. Silvermin to eat dinner that night.”

“Tell me about them.” The psychologist hoped the relief didn’t show in his voice to get to a less upsetting topic.

“Mr. Silvermin was always polite. He and my dad talked about business during dinner. He seemed very responsible. Respectable. He tried to take care of us, too, on the island.”

“Tried to?”

“…” The silence was suddenly too thick and too heavy. The psychologist sighed, adjusted his glasses, and scribbled something out on his clipboard. Dark eyes watched him.

“Anything else about him?”

“He had reddish-brown hair and a mustache—”

“About his personality, not his looks. I have seen a photograph of Mr. Silvermin and know what he looks like.” He smiled, trying to reassure his patient. Not that anything could do that, oh no, not after everything that happened. Still, it was worth a shot. You had to go through the motions, even if the motions wouldn’t help.

“He’s very smart and tries very hard to do the right thing,” came the perfectly toneless reply. The psychologist frowned.

“I know what you mean by that, but…”

“I… I don’t know what to say about him. I’m sorry that I don’t. I never really interacted much with him, never got to know him very well. I know he’s a businessman, he has a bit of an accent, and he feels responsible for what happened. That’s all.”

“Do you think he’s responsible for what happened?”

The air in the room got impossibly heavier. The psychologist stood his ground on this one; he had to find out something other than a story for this session. He had to try to fix the damage that had been done, and the first step to that was having the patient admit to certain feelings.

Finally, the answer came in a very small, very meek, “No.”

“Why not?”

“He didn’t do anything wrong!”

The psychologist wrote that down. Peeking over the edge of his clipboard, he tried to figure out how to approach the situation once more. “…Tell me about Tuesday now.”

“She… I don’t know about her.”

“You have to know _something_ about her.”

“I don’t.”

“Come now, you don’t have any opinion whatsoever?”

“I… I don’t know what to say about her! She’s—she’s just so—she’s the one who suggested it in the first place!” The shouted words hung in the room as if there’d been an echo. The psychologist didn’t have to write that down; he would never forget those words or the accompanying expression for as long as he lived.

For the first time, he tried to think of this not as another case, but as the tragedy it really was.

“…Do you not like Tuesday?”

“…She was nice to me. I liked her.”

“That was past tense. Was it meant to be?”

“I… like her. She was kind and told me stories. We would lie on the sand together and she would tell me fairytales and stuff. She tried to tell me the story of _Hamlet_ once, but it didn’t come out very well.”

“So… you liked these stories?”

“Yes. I did.”

“But you still hold bitter feelings?”

“I… A bit… But… She suggested it, so it was her fault, wasn’t it? It was all her fault?” The question ended in a high voice, the patient staring up at the psychologist with eyes that begged for an excuse, any excuse. Any excuse in the world to assuage the guilt and create an answer that could be taken as the gospel truth.

So the psychologist did the only thing he could in that situation without making things irreparably worse. “I thought you said it was all the rook’s fault,” he replied mildly.

His patient’s face fell. It was not the proper answer, not one that had been looked for at any rate, but it was the only one that would ever be received from a decent human being.

“…Tell me, how many of you made it to that island?”

“There were four of us. Mr. Silvermin, Tuesday, myself, and my dad.”

The psychologist’s head snapped up in surprise. He hadn’t heard that part before. “Your father? Then… What happened to your father?”

The dull, forced responses were back. “He swam out to save someone who was drowning. He didn’t come back.”

 

 

“Dad, don’t, don’t do it! Come back!” Michael pulled on his father’s arm insistently, rapidly nearing tears.

“For God’s sake, man, I’ll do it!” Silvermin protested, walking with them both down to the edge of the beach.

“Don’t worry about me.” He was already kicking off his shoes and taking off his jacket. He turned and smiled at Michael reassuringly, ruffling his hair. “You know I’m a good swimmer, don’t you? I’ll be back in just a minute!”

Michael finally started crying, letting go in favor of wiping the tears away. His father strode away, Silvermin following and hissing things under his breath. Just off the shore, the splashing could be heard getting weaker, the shouting coming in intermittent periods.

“Look! She’s drowning! I’ll be _right back_!” Michael’s father finally snapped at Silvermin. The red-haired man looked slightly taken aback and did nothing further to try to dissuade him from swimming back out into the ocean. Michael ran towards his father, but he was already wading out into the sea. Silvermin held out an arm and caught the boy, dragging him back so he wouldn’t pursue him.

“Don’t worry, your father will be right back,” he said quietly, watching.

“Dad, come back!”

He didn’t.

 

 

“…He was a brave man. He died trying to save another’s life,” the psychologist said quietly.

He expected anger, or bitterness, or perhaps even tears. All he got was, “He didn’t have to go.”

“Would you have let the woman drown?”

“…No. Mr. Silvermin would have gone, though! Why couldn’t he have let _him_ go—?!”

“I can’t pretend to know what happened, or his motives, or his thoughts at the time. I’m sorry. I’m sure he would have loved nothing more than to return to you, but he had to go out and try to save the woman.”

“…He was hoping it was mom,” the patient said listlessly, staring down at the silver charm bracelet.

“Then can you really blame him?”

“He left me! He left me for a chance—”

“A chance to bring your family back together. Wouldn’t that have been worth it?” He received no reply, but it wasn’t as if he had been expecting one. He jotted down a few more notes on the situation on his clipboard, and then looked back up at the patient sitting across from him. “…Tell me how the island went _before_ you met the rook.”

 

 

“I-I-I—”

“Shh, shh, it’s okay.”

“He-He—”

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” she murmured, brushing back his hair like his mother had.

It was nearing sundown, and no one else had shown up on the island. His father hadn’t come back, and the woman he’d been trying to save hadn’t appeared, either. It was just the three of them on the island, alone.

Michael was being rocked as he cried. The brown-haired girl was doing it, trying to act motherly. He needed it, but it didn’t mean he liked it. Only his mother should be doing this—but if she were, then he wouldn’t be in the situation in the first place…

“Wh-Why did this happen,” he whispered, voice hoarse.

“I don’t know,” she replied softly, rubbing his shoulders. “It’s terrible though, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“You know, let’s just go to sleep. It’s getting dark, and maybe they’ll show up in the morning,” she continued in that same quiet, soothing voice.

“I-I know th-they won’t!” he wailed. With that, Michael started crying again, started sobbing, unable to stop himself. He had never cried so much in his life before. Then again, his life just hours before seemed so foreign to him now. He had been _happy_ then.

“You don’t know that, shh. Some people really do show up the next morning. Haven’t you ever seen _Titanic_? Look at how long they were out there for.”

Standing a little ways away, the businessman cleared his throat. “Bad example,” he remarked. She gave him a look, but soon turned her attention back to Michael.

“Let’s just go to sleep now, since we have nothing else to do. Things will be better in the morning. …Would you like a story?” She smoothed back his hair again, smiling. The silver charm bracelet on her wrist sparkled in the fading light. Michael nodded miserably, sniffling. “Well, let’s see. Once upon a time, there was this dog and a cat. They always, _always_ fought…”

Michael wasn’t sure at what point he fell asleep, but he never did find out what happened to the dog and the cat. He didn’t dream or wake up at all during the night, so the next time he opened his eyes, all he knew was that it was bright out, he was stiff, he was hungry, and he had a headache.

He sat up and propped himself up with an elbow, rubbing his eyes with his free hand. He felt horrible. Unfortunately, he soon remembered why. He sat fully up and started taking deep breaths to try to stop himself from crying. Things would look better in the morning, right? And maybe his parents had shown up in the night!

Michael clambered to his feet, and, after stretching, started to investigate the beach. There was no one in sight, which was saying something, because he could see a _lot_. The beach spread out on his right and left almost endlessly, and the sea lay in front of him, equally vast. Behind him, however, was the forest.

He started walking towards it, looking for other footprints, but found none. Instead, he found green. There were grasses, ferns, bizarre plants and trees all around. Having lived in Colorado for all of his life, Michael was definitely unprepared for a tropical habitat.

“…if we just climb it—”

“And how do you propose doing that easily?”

Michael turned when he heard voices. They were immediately recognizable as Tuesday and Silvermin, however, dashing any hope he had of seeing his parents again. Just the thought of that brought stinging tears back to his eyes. Wiping them away with his wrist, he clambered through the undergrowth in the direction of the voices. Not too far away, the girl and man were standing under a large palm tree, staring up at it.

Tuesday was the first to notice him, breaking out into a wide smile when she did. “Look! We found coconuts.”

“We just need to get the blasted things down, now…” Silvermin added, mostly to himself.

Michael looked around. A lot of the trees looked like the one in front of them, but now that he was _really_ looking, it seemed as that not all of them had coconuts. “…Why can’t we just climb the tree?” he asked, sniffing back the last vestiges of his tears.

Tuesday’s smile dimmed a couple watts. “Well, there are no branches to climb with, for one. And the bark is really rough and scratchy, so whoever climbs it would probably cut themselves pretty badly.”

“I’ve climbed trees before,” Michael said as he stepped closer to the tree. “I’m good at it.”

“Have you ever climbed a palm tree before?” Silvermin asked, nodding at the tree. “They’re a different sort of animal.”

“Tree,” he corrected, patting the trunk. It _was_ pretty rough, but he didn’t think it was too bad. Not that much worse than regular tree bark, anyway. “I could climb this—”

“If you fall, or cut yourself, or hurt yourself, we can’t just go to the hospital,” Tuesday cut in nervously, shifting her weight to her other leg. “That’s what we’re worried about. Even a little cut or scrape could get infected, and then that would be bad.”

“We’ll be able to get to a hospital later, though. When we get rescued.” Michael hadn’t really thought about them being shipwrecked before, or stranded on an apparently deserted island, but it was true. All they could do was wait for someone to come, pick them up, and take them back home. So that meant that they were on their own until then… “Do we have gloves or something? If we cover my hands, then I won’t get scraped.”

Tuesday and Silvermin looked at each other. “I don’t have any gloves,” she said as the man shook his head.

“I have my jacket, and that would protect your arms, though. The sleeves should be long enough to cover your hands…” He took off his jacket and held it out for Michael. True to his word, it dwarfed the boy. The sleeves easily covered his hands—and then some. “See? Ingenuity at its finest.”

Michael smiled, the first time in quite awhile. He jumped when Silvermin picked him up. “Wha—?”

“It may only be a couple feet, but it’s a boost nonetheless,” he replied briskly, setting him on his shoulders with a grunt. “See if that doesn’t help you.”

“An-And don’t worry, we’ll catch you if you fall!” Tuesday added, circling the trunk anxiously.

After the problem of the rough trunk was solved, however—even if Michael could do nothing but worry about his hands and if he were to get hurt and get infected—getting to the top was easy. He had to hug the tree with one arm while he pried the coconuts off, which was a little difficult at first, but he soon got the hang of it. A couple of the coconuts nearly hit the pair below, too, but even that was easily taken care of as they watched from afar.

“I’m coming back down!” he called. He had gotten all but the two toughest ones off the tree and figured that that would be enough for some food. At least for a little while. He didn’t know how long they were going to be on the island, but surely, it wouldn’t be that long. He wasn’t sure about eating nothing but coconuts for any amount of time.

“Wait! Can you see if you can get a couple of the leaves off as well?” Silvermin shouted back up. He earned two confused looks in response. “Palm leaves can be used for a lot of things. Beds, for starters, and green leaves tend to smoke when burned. We’ll need to start a signal fire at some point today.”

It only took a few moments of wrestling with the leaves, however, for Michael to discover that it would be too hard to get them off the tree. “I can’t! They’re too tough!”

“It’s fine! We’ll just find ones already on the ground!” Tuesday chirped, beckoning him back down.

After managing to find some bananas as well, the trio settled down on the beach to eat and discuss. Or rather, Silvermin discussed, Tuesday tried to offer some help, and Michael listened. They decided that food and water had to be a priority. They had enough food for the rest of the day, but they only had what liquid was inside the coconuts and seawater for water. (Actually, only the coconut water. Michael had suggested drinking the seawater and was immediately and rather harshly shot down by both of the others. Apparently it was bad to drink.)

Among the three of them, they had very little. The clothes on their backs, Silvermin had an old Swiss army knife that was a little dull and hadn’t been used properly in years, Tuesday had pockets full of gum, candy wrappers, and a cell phone ruined by the seawater, and the lifejackets Michael and Tuesday had been wearing was all that they possessed. Everything else was in the ocean.

“…Buck up! Everything will be alright. We’ll start a fire, make a bit of a shelter, shall we? And before you know it, rescue will be coming and picking us up and we’ll be back to civilization before we know it!” Silvermin exclaimed, clasping his hands together. Tuesday and Michael continued eating their bananas, cheerless and mute. “Alright then… You two stay here, and, er, start building a pit or something along those lines for a fire. I will go see if I can’t find anything else a little further inland. Stay here on the beach, alright?”

“Okay, Mr. Silvermin,” Tuesday replied quietly, glancing back at the trees behind her.

The man traipsed off. Michael watched him go. Tuesday was more focused on her silver charm bracelet. She twisted it a couple times on her wrist, then sighed, setting her hands on her feet as she drew her knees up to her chest.

Michael turned so that he could look at the sparkling water. “…Do people show up on the second day?” he asked after too long of a silence. She looked up at him.

It took her too long to create the necessary reassuring smile for the situation. “Sure, of course they do,” she said. Michael knew better, though; she had told him the truth before she’d even opened her mouth. He blinked a couple times to make sure the tears wouldn’t come again, took another bite of his banana, and continued looking out at the water.

His parents weren’t coming back.

 


	2. You Can Fool Yourself, I Promise It Will Help

Michael stared into the fire, somewhat mesmerized by the dancing flames. Tuesday had already told him several times not to do that, but he honestly couldn’t help it. If he stared at the fire, he didn’t have to think. Instead, he could simply stare and let his mind shut off for a little bit.

Too much had happened in such a short time. It was all beginning to come home for the boy, too. He was just now realizing, truly _realizing_ , that his parents might very well never come back. Ever. His uncle and aunt, too, might be… gone as well. He would never see any of them ever again.

Sunset of the second day, and no one else had arrived on the island. It was still just Michael, Tuesday, and Silvermin. Silvermin had taken his time exploring the island, and while he was excited to say that he had found a spring of drinkable (or at least, they _hoped_ it was drinkable, especially considering the fact that they had all already drank quite a bit) freshwater, he also hadn’t found any people or even that many animals—just a couple of birds that flew away when he approached, some tracks of some sort of hoofed animal, and a rat-like creature that had bitten his shoe.

“Tomorrow, we’ll have a look along the beach. We should be able to find fish and perhaps a crab or two. The sea is bountiful, so we shouldn’t have to eat only these fruits,” Silvermin said, rather loudly. His voice jarred Michael out of his thoughts.

“How will we catch the fish?” Tuesday asked, eyes bright in the firelight.

“We could fashion some sort of net…” Silvermin scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Or we could herd the fish into the shallows and try to catch them with our hands.”

“It might be a little hard catching fish with our _hands_ , don’t you think?” she asked flatly. “Let’s try to be a little practical here…”

“Fine, Ms. Practical, why don’t we use your skirt as a net?” Silvermin replied. Tuesday scowled at him and blushed, pulling her skirt down around her ankles.

“…Why don’t we weave together leaves or stuff into a net?” Michael suggested. The fact that the other two had almost been arguing hadn’t even crossed his mind. “I learned how to do that in school last year, and I think I could still do it.”

“Oh, right! I learned that in school, too.”

“I remember learning something similar when I was a boy. That sounds like a plan, then!”

Michael returned to watching the fire, completely unaware that he had broken up the first argument of the island.

 

 

“Did they argue often after that?” the psychologist asked. He’d been writing his notes throughout the story, trying to piece together the time on the island before it went south. Or before the rook came into play.

“…I can’t really remember. I don’t think so.”

“Did you ever argue with either of them?”

“No. I didn’t talk to them much, aside from planning.”

The psychologist raised both eyebrows. “…Really.” He ducked down behind his clipboard, scribbling furiously.

 

 

The third day was spent gathering palm tree leaves, tearing them into strips, and weaving them together. Silvermin turned out to be absolutely horrible at it, so he was delegated to gathering more materials and trying them in the water. Tuesday made a few atrocious ones before getting the hang of it, so she was allowed to stay working on them.

By noon, they had a fairly large pile of them and had run out of materials. “Aren’t there any more?” Tuesday asked in confusion, looking back at the forest.

“Tropical forests aren’t like normal forests, love. There aren’t a lot of leaves of any sort on the ground,” Silvermin replied briskly, looking down at the pile with his hands on his hips. “…As it is, this is probably more than enough. We can only use so many nets at a time.”

“We can always use the rest of them,” Michael pointed out, a little annoyed at the implication that their hard work was for naught. “You said so yourself—beds and fire and stuff.”

“Why burn our hard work?” Tuesday scooted protectively in front of the pile. “We could make a roof, or some sort of shelter with them. I’d _love_ to get out of this sun…”

The heat was starting to take its toll on all three of them. Michael had already sunburned his arms, being the only one without long sleeves, and they couldn’t drink enough to satisfy their thirst. “Could we somehow use them for carrying water?”

“Why don’t we just move to the spring?” she suggested. “We could tie a couple of them to trees for a bit of a roof, and the trees themselves will provide some shade as well. Plus we’ll be right there for the water.”

“What about the fire, then?” Silvermin asked in return. “We have to keep it going if we want anyone to know we’re here. Plus, once we catch our food, we’ll need to cook it. I don’t suggest starting a fire in a forest.”

Her face fell. She looked down at her feet, wiggling her toes in her sandals. “…Well then… I don’t know.”

“We could try to make a shelter out here. We’ll just have to get our water whenever we’re thirsty,” Michael said quietly.

And so the rest of the day was spent trying to find materials to make a shelter. There were a couple of small trees they managed to pull out of the ground, but aside from that, there wasn’t much they could do without an ax. Tuesday managed to create a bit of a lean-to, but it was a small one. Silvermin was the gentleman and let Tuesday and Michael have it.

Michael fell asleep to Silvermin staring at the fire, using Tuesday’s shoulder as a pillow, listening to, “…And so Hamlet had to convince the world he was mad. Unfortunately, he seemed to go actually mad, partially due to the situations he was forced into, partially due to his family’s problems…”

 

 

“How long were you on the island before the rook showed up?”

“He arrived on the fifth day. I think he was the one who started making things go badly for us. It was after we found him that we ran out of food.”

“How?”

“We never could catch any fish, and there were only so many coconuts and bananas…” The patient’s voice trailed off. The psychologist, for his part, couldn’t decide if it was bitterly or regretfully. “We had been exploring the island and looking for more food… We didn’t find any. We just found the rook.”

 

 

Michael’s stomach growled loudly. He wrapped his arms around his waist, trying to quiet it. He hadn’t gotten to eat since yesterday afternoon, and that was just a sparse couple of coconuts shared with Tuesday and Silvermin.

The businessman was off on his own looking for food, insisting on doing so since he supposedly had a better grasp of the island. Tuesday was stuck with Michael and they were only allowed to search the forest near the beach. This made for very boring searching, since they had already combed the area several times in previous searches.

“…There are animal tracks, but I haven’t seen any animals…” Tuesday murmured, gesturing vaguely down to some barely discernable prints in the sand. She wiped her brow and looked up at the sun overhead. Since they were still so close to the beach, the forest wasn’t very dense, and the sun was merciless even in the sparse shade. “We’re going to have to go back for water soon, huh?”

“Yeah,” he replied automatically, swallowing thickly. Come to think of it, he was thirsty, too…

Tuesday sighed. “Let’s go then.”

The pair turned around. In front of them, perched on a crooked banana plant, sat a black bird. The bird calmly watched them, not at all alarmed that humans were just a sparse foot or two in front of it.

“What’s a _crow_ doing here?” Tuesday asked aloud. Michael shrugged—like he knew. The bird tilted its head, watching them with one black, beady eye. “They don’t normally live on tropical islands… Do they?”

“I don’t think so,” he replied automatically. He _really_ didn’t know a thing about crows or tropical islands or where the subjects may or may not overlap. “It doesn’t seem to be very scared of us.”

“If we could catch it…”

The bird lowered its head, cawed, and then flew off. Tuesday sighed, running a hand through her bangs. Michael didn’t feel any different from before; she was obviously disappointed. Why they would want to catch a crow, he didn’t know. Unless they could eat it… His stomach growled again.

The two slowly made their way back towards the spring. Water would help sate their hunger, if only for a little while. Plus, it was important to keep themselves hydrated, as Silvermin kept telling them.

Halfway there, however, they ran into the bird again. It was perched on a fern this time, the plant bowed nearly to the ground under its weight. The bird appeared to be smiling at them.

Tuesday hummed to herself happily and peeled off her sweater. She held it out like a net in front of herself, approaching the bird carefully. It made no move to fly away. Michael moved a bit so he could watch, however, and immediately the black bird’s eyes were on him. Tuesday froze, poised to throw the sweater. The bird still made no move to leave, so she took a very cautious step forward. No response, so another followed.

Tuesday dove at the bird with her sweater. The crow flew out of the way with a caw—straight at Michael. He yelped and ducked, the bird missing his head by the tip of its feathers. It flew off into the forest once more, continuing its laugh-like call.

“Damn that bird!” Tuesday snarled, pushing herself back up onto her hands and knees. She blew some hair out of her eyes, shook her head, and got fully to her feet. “I was so close…”

“What’s all the noise about?!” Michael and Tuesday both jumped when Silvermin came crashing through the foliage. He looked worried—actually, he looked downright distraught. Panting slightly, he looked over them both a couple times, then, satisfied that there were no obvious injuries, narrowed his eyes. “Why the bloody hell were you two shouting so loudly?”

“There was this bird—”

“There was a crow and it—”

They had started speaking at the same time. When they realized this, Tuesday and Michael looked at each other. Taking a deep breath, the teenage girl continued, “There was a crow and we were trying to catch it. I missed.”

“And it tried to attack me!” Michael added angrily.

Silvermin looked between the pair. Then, he smiled ruefully. “…Really. A crow, on a tropical island? I don’t doubt it was a bird, but—”

“I’m serious, it was a crow. Which way did it go?” Tuesday replied flatly. Michael pointed behind him, scowling in the direction the bird had flew off in. “Come on, we’ll show you. It doesn’t seem at all afraid of humans, and we’ve been able to get pretty close to it…”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Silvermin said under his breath, adjusting his shirt’s collar.

Tuesday took Michael’s hand as they led the businessman through the forest, on the lookout for the black bird. They found the spring first, though, and decided to stop for a break. Silvermin still _clearly_ doubted the presence of a crow on the island, but the two younger ones stood their ground. They had definitely seen one.

Michael cupped his hands in the cool water and brought it to his mouth, not-so-accidentally spilling most of it down his shirtfront on the way. He caught Tuesday frowning at the wasteful action, but he really couldn’t help it. It was so hot out, and he was already sunburned. The water felt too good to pass up, even if it meant disobeying her.

As he guiltily looked away, however, he found the bird again. It was perched on a rock not a foot from where they were sitting, watching them silently. “Look!” Even at his surprised shout, the bird didn’t move a muscle. It really didn’t seem scared of them at all.

“Eh?” Silvermin blinked a couple times and even rubbed his eyes. Tuesday shot him a triumphant look. He caught it and frowned, clearing his throat. “ _Hate_ to break it to you, love, but that’s not a crow.”

“What—?!”

“It’s technically not a crow, no. It’s a rook. It’s too small to be a crow or a raven, so it’s a rook by default. Not a crow.” The brunette girl rolled her eyes at the technicality and opened her mouth to retort. The rook interrupted her, however, by flying directly in between her and Silvermin, leaving once more. “Bold bird…”

Michael stared after the departing rook, unable to figure out a single reason why it would be on the island. It obviously wasn’t native, and it was the only one they’d come across. Was it lost, like they were? Or did it actually have a reason for being on the island?

The rest of the day, Michael alternated between wondering about the rook and what they were going to eat. They never did find any other food, or even any other animals for that matter. Silvermin complained about some impossible-to-track animal tracks, but that really only made matters worse. It made them think of the meal they could have had.

“We could try our hand at fishing again…”

“We’ve already tried. It just doesn’t work.”

Michael lay limply on the sand, hungry and exhausted. They had walked in circles the entire day, sometimes chasing the rook, sometimes doubling back to drink at the spring, but never finding anything but slightly dirty water to fill their stomachs with. He had suggested eating some of the plants that grew on the island, but Tuesday had shot him down, explaining that some plants were poisonous and they really didn’t know which ones were safe to eat and which were not. A mistake could easily prove fatal.

“We could always go the route of _Lord of the Flies_ ,” Tuesday joked. Michael didn’t get the humor in her voice, but then again, he didn’t know what _Lord of the Flies_ was. Probably another book she had read. Was it like _Lord of the Rings_? Since he was lying down, he missed the oddly blank look Silvermin had given her. “We have a little boy here and everything.”

“What’s that?” Michael asked tiredly, eyelids drooping. It was only a little after sunset and still pretty bright out, but he was so tired lately…

“A book about a plane crash. A bunch of young boys, probably around your age, end up on an island by themselves and have to fend for themselves. It’s a metaphor for civilization and how easily and quickly it can decline into little more than hysteria and chaos,” she explained effortlessly.

Michael hadn’t understood most of the last of it, but he understood the first part, at least. “…Then what do they do that _we_ haven’t tried yet? Besides the declining part.”

Tuesday stayed uncharacteristically silent, especially considering he was asking her a book question. Michael raised his head up out of the sand, surprised to see her turn away from him. “Um… I didn’t mean…”

“Cannibalism. They ended up eating another one of the boys,” Silvermin replied in a flat tone, staring out at the ocean.

“Oh.” Michael’s head went back down into the sand. That probably wasn’t something they should try.

The next day and the day after that, they didn’t find any more food, however. The spring wasn’t giving out as much water, either. Neither Tuesday nor Silvermin mentioned _Lord of the Flies_ again. Michael tried not to think about it, too, but it was hard to not think when all they had to do _was_ think.

So soon after losing both parents, he really didn’t think he should be thinking about the prospect of killing—and eating!—another human being. It would mean that there would only be two left on the island, only two survivors of the shipwreck. And what if no rescue came after that? Would one of the remaining two be eaten? And what would happen to that last person, then?

…And there was, of course, the matter of _who_ it would be. The thought of killing animals made him a little bit squeamish, but as they actually hadn’t caught anything, he really hadn’t had to confront that problem. Killing a person, however, that was entirely different. Both Tuesday and Silvermin had faces, personalities, _names_ , lives. They were humans. Humans just didn’t _eat_ other humans.

Michael’s stomach growled, begging for food. He laid a hand over it, resting in the shade of their lean-to, and tried to ignore his body’s plea.

People didn’t eat other people. It really was as simple as that. Oh, if only they could find that rook again, or that hoofed animal Silvermin kept mentioning, or really anything. He’d gladly eat coconuts or bananas at that point. It seemed as if they’d eaten so well on that second day, but now it seemed so distant and just a fond memory.

Day eight—or was it nine?—dawned bright and cheery and hungrily. Michael’s stomach _demanded_ food, loudly and rather angrily. He groaned and rolled over onto Tuesday’s arm, nestling into her shoulder. She mumbled something and put her free arm around him, pulling him closer to her in her sleep. Michael squeezed his eyes shut tightly and tried to focus on breathing instead of his constant hunger or thirst. He inhaled and exhaled, but that only made his stomach growl more, so he paid attention to Tuesday in front of him instead.

Her mascara was smudged all over her eyes, giving them a dark, almost raccoon-like look, her hair was tousled all over the place, her skirt was torn and her sweater was dirty, but she told him stories and always had a smile or an answer to his questions. Michael sighed, drifting back to sleep, concentrating on her.

When he awoke again, she was crawling out of the lean-to. He rubbed his eyes sleepily, trying to get the sand out of them. The problem with living so long on an island was that sand got _everywhere_. He yawned, ignored his stomach, and pushed himself up onto his elbows.

Outside the lean-to, Silvermin and Tuesday were talking in hushed tones. Michael lay back down on his stomach, swallowing to try to wet his dry mouth. He could barely hear more than a murmur from them. His hunger wouldn’t let him go back to sleep this time, however, so he tried to listen to them to wake himself up.

Tuesday was talking in that worried tone she got when she was wringing her hands. “Mr. Silvermin, you are a grown man and can last longer than we can. We’re just children. We need food. I don’t know what we’re going to do, but we’re going to have to do _something_.”

“What do you propose on doing, hmm? If you haven’t noticed, we can’t do much right now. We can keep the fire burning to attract any attention in the area, but until we get rescued, we can’t do much!” He sounded annoyed, and his words had a rehearsed sound to them, as if he didn’t personally believe himself. Maybe they had had the argument before.

“We have to stop rationing the water. It’s all we have. It’ll run out eventually, anyway…” She trailed off, mumbled something too quiet to hear, and then raised her voice again. “We’ve just been assuming rescue will come…”

“It will. A whole ship goes down? They’re on their way here,” Silvermin replied firmly. Much too forcefully for it to be reassuring.

“We have to find a way to survive until then.” Tuesday’s words had taken on the same weight that his had. They were not trying to talk to each other; they were talking to themselves, trying to convince themselves of things. Michael wasn’t exactly sure what, though, since he was still a little drowsy and much too naïve about the world to understand the choices they were trying to make. “We have to,” she repeated.

 

 

The psychologist swallowed, a little unnerved by the way this story was turning out. Oh, sure, he had seen dozens of truly disturbing things in his patients, but very rarely did one affect him this much. Too much had happened in too little time to this patient, and it was obvious the result.

“Tell me… What sort of effect did the rook have on you all?” he asked. The bird hadn’t seemed to play a very large part, but then again, the horror had only started.

The patient’s head lolled to the side as there was much thought about how to respond. “…I don’t know about the others… But I had a nightmare about him that night.”

“Oh? Why don’t you tell me what it was like?”

“Terrible.”

 

 

After another day with no food and nothing in his stomach save water and a bit of sand he had tried eating, Michael slept fitfully. He couldn’t get comfortable. Tuesday, however, slept like the dead, arms outstretched from where he had rolled out of them.

Eventually, and not wanting to wake her, he crawled out of the lean-to. The fire was crackling somewhat weakly, not much more than a couple of pathetic flames and embers. Silvermin was curled up beside it, asleep, using his jacket as a pillow.

Michael rubbed at his eyes and yawned, wondering about getting a drink of water. If he got one, would the other two be mad at him? …Would they ever find out?

He yawned again and got shakily to his feet. He hadn’t been feeling so well lately—pretty weak and he got dizzy—but he chalked it up to being hungry. The boy padded silently out of the light of the fire and made it all the way to the edge of the trees before he felt someone watching him. Guiltily, he turned around, but Silvermin was still asleep by the fire. Michael, confused, squinted into the darkness. It looked like Tuesday was still sleeping, too, or at the very least she hadn’t come out of the lean-to.

Michael felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. The feeling of being watched persisted; who was out there? Was it an animal of some sort? Or was it a person? He had never been into scary stories very much, but he couldn’t help but recall a couple he’d heard about various monsters and psychos stalking people and killing them…

He continued to look about him carefully, watching the darkness for any signs of movement. Between the ocean’s waves and his overly loud breathing, he couldn’t hear anything. The psycho could come up right behind him and he wouldn’t even hear him. Just to be sure, Michael looked over his shoulder. Nothing there, thankfully. He backed up until his outstretched arm touched a tree and hastily slid up to it. Maybe he wasn’t so thirsty after all… But he made it all the way to the forest, so why not try to go the rest of the way?

Michael circled around the tree, keeping his back pressed against the rough bark. He still didn’t hear anything save his heart thundering in his ribcage, or see anything save the blackness of the night. He was dimly aware of the fact that he was only working himself up more.

He reached out his hand for the next tree and scampered over to it when he found it a bit too far for him to touch. And so he continued winding his way through the forest, tree by tree, steadily getting calmer when nothing jumped out with a knife. He made it all the way to the spring, in fact, before he found what had been watching him.

The rook sat on one of the rocks, watching him with bright eyes. Michael pressed a hand to his wildly beating heart when he caught sight of the bird. He had been expecting something, yes, but not _actually_ expecting something to be there… “Thank God it’s just you…” he whispered, voice hoarse and shaky.

Michael ignored the bird and leaned down to take a drink. He made up his mind to not drink that much, just enough to take the edge off his hunger and thirst.

“Have you decided on a course to take yet?”

Michael coughed, nearly choking on the water. His head snapped up to stare, wide-eyed, at the rook. Had it just _spoken_? If not—who had?! “Wh-What are you talking about? Who said that?!”

The rook tilted its head to one side jerkily, beak glinting in the faint moonlight. “I asked you a question. Don’t answer me with two more. It’s very counterproductive,” it replied.

Michael nearly fainted. He slowly edged away, suddenly not thirsty at all. He couldn’t believe they’d nearly caught the bird to eat earlier—is that why it was here? To get revenge or something against them for wanting to eat it? “I-I-I—”

“Oh, aren’t you articulate,” the rook said, beak clicking on the last syllable. It tilted its head to the other side, regarding him with one eye. “…It’s obvious you haven’t made up your mind yet. I’ll have to come back later for the answer.”

With that, the rook cawed loudly. Michael bolted upright, soaked in a cold sweat. He hit his head on top of the lean-to, however, and several of the palm leaves fell on top of both himself and Tuesday. She awoke in confusion, wiping leaves out of her hair as she squinted up at him. “What’s going on…?” she asked, blinking in the darkness.

“I…” Michael pressed his hands to his cheeks. Had it just been a dream, then? It seemed so. He was still in their bed, at any rate, and the horizon out the side of the lean-to was beginning to show some pinkish light. It wasn’t the middle of the night, so it _must_ have been a dream—or nightmare, really.

“Are you alright?” Now more awake, Tuesday sat up as well, frowning worriedly. Without waiting for an answer, she pulled him into a hug, running her fingers through his blond hair soothingly. “It’s okay… Want to go back to sleep?”

Not really; he was wide awake now. “No, I’m not tired,” he whispered, closing his eyes.

“Then let’s get up. …Who knows, maybe some animals will be awake this early. Maybe we’ll be able to get some food today,” she replied in a sigh, continuing playing with his hair, making no move to get up. Michael didn’t necessarily mind. Now he was comfortable, and maybe even perhaps a little sleepy. Just as he was thinking that, however, Tuesday released him and got to her feet, dusting off her skirt as she did so. He scrambled after her and stood with her, looking at the partially wrecked lean-to. “This shouldn’t take too long to fix. We can do it later. Let’s go get a bit of water and then we can see if we can’t find any food today, shall we?” she asked brightly, taking his hand and marching off towards the forest.

Michael shivered, remembering his nightmare. It was already fading with the night, but he distinctly remembered the rook and its condescending, vaguely frightening tone. He concentrated on telling himself it was just a dream, only a dream, it wasn’t real. The technique worked, for they were at the spring before he had the chance to wonder what he might do if the rook was still there. The bird was nowhere in sight.

He let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding.

They found yet more taunting tracks, but they found no animals whatsoever. Not even any birds, rook included. When they returned to their camp, Silvermin was awake and tending the fire. He stood up when they got near. “Where have you two been?!” he demanded.

“We were just getting a bit of water and looked for food,” Tuesday replied hesitantly, gripping Michael’s hand tightly. “We weren’t gone long and we didn’t want to wake you, anyway.”

“I’m not sleep-deprived. You should tell me whenever you leave the beach.” He still seemed angry, but he was rapidly losing that anger. Michael realized that he had been worried about them.

“We’ll tell you next time,” he said softly, interrupting Tuesday’s retort. She looked down at him, and then over at the man, relaxing. She let go of Michael’s hand. “We promise. Right?”

“Right,” she replied with a slightly forced smile.

Silvermin sighed and sat back down near the fire. He hung his head, but immediately it came back up as he surveyed the pair. He seemed to be thinking about something. Michael found this a little disconcerting, since the businessman had always been open with them. He seemed to feel responsible for them and was always watching out for them. For him to not share something with them… It seemed off.

Michael and Tuesday set about to fixing their shelter while Silvermin went off to search for food, yet again. They knew it would be a futile endeavor, but it wouldn’t hurt to hope, right? And regardless of the actual possibility of finding food, they had that small, hungry hope growing inside them.

Once Silvermin was out of earshot, Tuesday gave Michael a one-armed hug as she lifted up part of the roof. “You’re such a little angel. You’re too cute and too nice,” she said with a chuckle. Michael smiled, feeling pleased with the compliment.

Silvermin came back late—it was almost sunset—with empty hands. He had tried tracking any animals he saw or spotted any sort of trail, but to no avail. All three of them sat around the fire, stomachs complaining loudly, and stared at the flames. No one knew what to say. They were getting hungrier and hungrier, and more and more often Michael got his dizzy spells. Sooner or later, one of them would pass out, and that would mean that they were in serious trouble.

…As if they weren’t already.

Silvermin sat completely still, whereas Tuesday wouldn’t stop fidgeting. Michael was lost in his own little world. This time, the fire wasn’t the one mesmerizing him, however. He was thinking—about what would happen to them. They were all so hungry, and each day, it was visible how much weaker they were getting. Their water supply wasn’t going to last forever, either, even he knew that. With no food and eventually no water… They wouldn’t last. They would _die_.

Michael pulled his knees to his chest and buried his face in them. They would all die. They would be gone, like his parents and aunt and uncle and everyone else on board that ship. People might never find their bodies. They would just lie on the sand for forever, maybe even becoming food for that rook. That would be irony; they would die of starvation, but their bodies would be used for food. Dead humans equaled food. Funny how that worked out.

Michael felt his thoughts starting to drift towards the cannibalism the other two had mentioned before.

“…I’m so hungry.” Tuesday’s voice drew the attention of both males. She sounded nearly ready to cry. Eyes bright in the firelight, she stared listlessly at the flames and spoke again, “I’m so hungry… What will we do? We’ll die at this rate.”

“I know, love,” Silvermin replied quietly. Michael looked at him, if only to look away from Tuesday’s almost-crying face, and was surprised to see the man look so sad. He wasn’t ready to cry, not like her, but he seemed like he had just heard something terribly tragic. Like something major had just happened and he couldn’t have stopped it.

“We have to _do_ something,” Tuesday pleaded, tears running down her cheeks now. Michael’s stomach grumbled and he wrapped his arms around himself, closing his eyes.

“Tomorrow. If we don’t find food tomorrow…” Silvermin trailed off with a cough. “We will talk about this tomorrow more seriously. If we don’t find food.”

Michael didn’t know what he was really talking about, but he knew that it made him feel cold and nervous. He fell asleep with in Tuesday’s arms, as usual, that night. She didn’t tell him a story, however, and instead held him close and kissed the top of his head. “I’m so sorry, little angel.” Her voice was so soft, he wasn’t sure he’d heard her, or if she had even spoken at all.

And so Michael fell asleep.

They didn’t find any food the next day.

The three of them had searched the entire island up and down, so desperate it hurt. Michael didn’t know why, but it was contagious, and he nearly broke down in tears when he came to the northernmost edge of the island while seeing absolutely _nothing_. They couldn’t find any food. What would they do now?

He swore at one point that he saw that rook, but he only got a glimpse, so he couldn’t be sure. At any rate, they couldn’t catch the bird, so they couldn’t use it for food.

That afternoon, the three came back together with empty hands and even emptier stomachs. Michael noticed that Tuesday’s sweater was a bit baggier on her than it had been originally. Silvermin’s shirt hung more loosely on his shoulders. They were officially starving.

“…We didn’t find any food,” Michael said shamefully, hanging his head. “None on the whole island.”

“What are we going to do now…?” Tuesday asked, looking up at the businessman through her bangs. Her mascara-smudged eyes brimmed with tears.

Silvermin took a deep breath, then exhaled. “We are going to draw lots.”

He seemed to already have a plan as to how to go about such a thing. They took a palm leave and cut it into strips, then cut those strips into ones of varying lengths. Michael didn’t dare ask what they were doing this for; he had a very, _very_ bad feeling about it and was operating under the rather naïve principle that if he didn’t acknowledge the problem, it would go away. They dug a narrow, deep hole and dumped the makeshift straws into the hole.

“We are going to draw three each. There will be more than enough for each of us,” Silvermin explained, voice hollow. He wouldn’t look at either of them and was instead staring fiercely at the hole at his feet. “The one who has the shortest combined length loses.”

No one asked what would be lost.

“Close your eyes, and reach in. Just grab whichever one is there—don’t go fishing around for it.”

The three of them knelt down around the hole, and one by one, started picking up their palm lots. He drew first and picked out a medium-length one. Or, at least, he assumed it was medium length. And it was, at least compared to Tuesday’s—hers was long—and Silvermin’s—his was short. The two older ones exchanged a look. Tuesday then turned to Michael with a shaky, watery smile, and asked him if he would draw his second one.

The pressure mounted, and Michael still wasn’t exactly sure why, which really only made it worse. He was sweating when he reached into the hole a second time, and drew out a fairly short one. That wasn’t good. He glanced at Tuesday as she drew out a medium-length one; she had two pretty long ones. Silvermin drew out a long one, which balanced out his short one. Who was winning? Michael looked down at the two clutched tightly in his hand. Was he losing?

Tuesday looked at him expectantly, wanting him to draw another. Michael shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut. “I-I don’t want to draw another…”

“But—”

“I’ll draw,” Silvermin said gruffly, reaching in for his third. He drew out another long one. He looked to Tuesday, who mutely took her turn as next. Michael watched as she took one out, a pretty short one. Michael swallowed; he couldn’t stall any longer. He had to draw his final straw.

Michael kept his eyes closed when he reached in, and didn’t open them until he pulled out one of the strips. He finally cracked open one eye, and was immensely relieved to see that it was a long one. But… Silvermin had two long ones and a short one, and Tuesday had a long one, a medium one, and a short one. Michael had one of each, too.

“We’re going to have to measure,” Silvermin said in that same hollow voice. He laid down his three strips in a line so that they touched, creating a long straw. Michael crawled over and laid his down as well. His was about three inches shorter than Silvermin’s. His heart jumped into his throat and he found it suddenly very hard to breathe.

“Mine’s shorter…”

Before he could finish that thought, Tuesday laid hers down. The line was nearly even to Michael’s—but… just a little shorter. Barely half an inch shorter. Michael and Tuesday stared at these results, neither of them breathing.

“…That’s it, then,” Silvermin said flatly. His voice was still empty. He seemed a little shocked by the results, though. “So… We’ll… discuss the details then, love?”

Tuesday continued staring down at the shortest line. She didn’t reply.

Michael wanted to nudge her, or say something, or even hug her, but he didn’t do any of them. He didn’t know why not. He could only concentrate on the fact that he had the middle length. He hadn’t lost. But what had Tuesday lost?

Silvermin reached out and touched her on the shoulder. It was a light touch, barely brushing against her sweater’s fabric. She jumped as though burned, however, head snapping up. Her eyes were dry, wide, staring, staring blindly ahead. “I… I lost,” she said blankly. Michael nearly flinched; her hollow voice was much worse than Silvermin’s.

“Let’s talk about this, love,” Silvermin said quietly, trying to sound… something. Michael really wasn’t sure what he was aiming for, but it made him sound like he was far away. “We can talk about this, how we’ll go about this. Let’s not make this tougher than it has to be.”

Tuesday opened her mouth to reply—and caught sight of Michael, who had been looking at her. She immediately closed it again, rubbed her eye with her palm—smudging her makeup even further—and smiled warmly. “…Yeah.”

 


	3. Blessed Is He Who Suffers Temptation

Michael was told to go to bed. He silently went to the lean-to and listened to Silvermin lead Tuesday away. He could still hear them talking over the ocean, but he couldn’t make out any of their words.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

Michael kept his eyes shut tight and tried to keep his mind shut, too. He couldn’t help but think, though. He thought he had a feeling as to what they were talking about, but he dreaded ever finding out if he was right or not. He really, honestly didn’t want to know. He just wanted to wake up, to find out that this was all a bad dream. His parents would still be with him, they wouldn’t be on this horrible island, Tuesday wouldn’t have those dark eyes or that look, and Silvermin wouldn’t have to sound so empty.

Michael didn’t hear the footsteps until something nudged the top of his head. Eyes wide open now, he shakily got to his hands and knees and raised his head. Had they come to a decision? What were they talking about, anyway? What had Tuesday lost?

He didn’t find Tuesday returning, or Silvermin checking up on him. The boy found himself looking up into a skull, however. His breath caught.

It wasn’t a human skull, but that didn’t make the shock any less heart stopping. The eyes were merely darkened sockets; he could still feel its gaze. The skull was missing a bottom jaw and its snout was sharp and partially broken, splintered and cracked. Two dark, curving horns protruded from the back of the skull. Michael belatedly realized it was a ram’s skull when he forced himself to inhale.

He stared at the skull, shivering. It remained motionless, staring at him. Michael slowly backed up until he was sitting on his knees, shaking hands held defensively in front of him. What _was_ that thing?

The skull suddenly dipped lower, and Michael’s heart nearly stopped again. He realized with that jolt that it was connected to a _body_ , and the skull was supposed to be the body’s _head_. Behind the head and below it, he could only see shaggy, black fur, blending in with the dark night around it.

“You’ve come to a decision.” When the thing spoke, Michael backed up until he fell over, chest heaving and eyes wide. The skull jerkily moved to the side. It was as if the creature tilted its head. It took a step forward, and blue eyes darted down to find claws stepping into the lean-to.

Michael screamed.

The thing patiently waited for him to stop screaming. The boy’s voice finally gave out and he resorted to backing up again and whimpering. Neither Tuesday nor Silvermin came running up, unfortunately, which meant Michael was alone with the skull monster. It jerkily stepped forward, ducking its head to enter the lean-to. It seemed to walk on four legs, and its front two ended in viciously sharp claws, almost talon-like.

“Don’t do that again,” the thing commanded. Michael swallowed. He didn’t even consider not listening to it. It took another step forward, crouching down to let two monstrously large folded wings into the lean-to as well. Michael was nearly on his back, staring up at it as it loomed over him with its empty eye sockets and splintered jaw.

Michael couldn’t reply to it. He was too terrified to now, after his initial, futile scream. His throat felt as if it had closed up and he could do nothing more than offer a faint wheeze.

The creature leaned down until its skull was mere inches from his face. Michael could tell that it wasn’t breathing. “You’ve come to a decision. Is it one you’re happy with? Will you be able to be happy with it at the end of your life?”

Michael opened his mouth, but again, no sound would come out. It tilted its head to the side again, and he could have sworn it was smiling at him, as if it knew his plight. “I—What a-are you?” Suddenly, he could speak. Michael tried not to think about how he had the feeling that the creature had _allowed_ him to speak. He didn’t want it to have that much power over him.

“I am the Rook.” It leaned down and touched the tip of its jaw to Michael’s forehead.

The boy bolted upright, chest heaving and cold sweat trickling uncomfortably down his neck. Tuesday was sitting near the edge of the lean-to. She jumped and stared at him in alarm at the sudden movement. Michael suppressed a relieved sob that it was just a dream and rubbed his eyes, trying to wipe away the tears. He felt like he’d just lost something terribly important to him, but he had no idea what it might have been. That somehow made it worse.

Tuesday didn’t ask what was wrong. Instead, she exhaled slowly and placed a hand on his leg. Michael looked down at her hand, the bracelet shining faintly from the firelight. He was completely unused to seeing her so… empty. Hollow. She normally had a smile or a hug for him, but she had never looked so _broken_ before. Michael leaned forward and put his hand over hers, staring hard up at her. Tuesday just looked down at the gesture.

“…You’re such an angel. Thank you.” She still wasn’t smiling. She took her hand out from under his and used it to wipe at her eyes. She then half-turned away from him, staring out into the night, twirling her bracelet for something to do with her hands. Michael, heart still pounding in his chest from his nightmare, crawled forward and sat down beside her.

“What’s wrong?” he asked quietly.

“I…” She paused, searching for the right words. “Tomorrow, we’re… You’ll be strong for me, right?”

Michael wasn’t expecting that. “Of course,” he replied in confusion. Why did he have to be strong for her? He had a suspicion he knew what it was, but he would not acknowledge the dark little thought. He would never acknowledge it.

Tuesday sniffed and rubbed at her eyes again. She had been weepy lately, but she was more subdued now. Like she had run out of actual tears to cry. “Good.”

Michael, on the other hand, still had plenty of tears to spend. He scooted closer to her and wrapped one arm around her waist, leaning his head on her shoulder. “…Don’t be sad,” he told her, unsure of what else to say. He really didn’t want to ask what was wrong; he didn’t want to know the answer. The dark little thought reared its ugly head once more.

Tuesday laughed. It wasn’t a happy laugh, though. It was more of a sad, or angry, or bitter laugh—it could have been a lot of things, but not a happy laugh. “I-I was going to get married, you know.” He didn’t know where that subject had come from or why she was telling him. He only listened, however. “I mean, I don’t have th-the ring, but we had talked about it, and we were going to… He gave me this.”

She held up her arm, the silver bracelet sliding down on her wrist, charms swinging from the movement.

“He’s been so patient with m-me, and he’s so sw-sweet…! H-His name is Chris an-an-and I love him _so much_!” With that, she broke down, and Michael found out that she wasn’t out of tears, after all. She kept talking through her crying, most of it incoherent whimpering and sobbing, Michael knew, at that point, what she and Silvermin had been talking about and couldn’t ignore the point any longer.

What seemed like hours later, Tuesday had cried herself to sleep. The remains of her mascara had run down her cheeks, giving her two black lines running straight down to the bottom of her jaw. Michael wanted to wipe it off, but he was worried he’d wake her, and he thought she should be able to sleep.

Michael shakily sighed and pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. His parents had left him. Now Tuesday was leaving him. This island was going to rip everything from him until it eventually killed him, too—he knew that much. He didn’t see any way out of it, really, since you couldn’t fight against an _island_ and the ocean was just as fierce and killed just as many and in the end everyone would die anyway—

He jerked his hands away from his eyes, interrupting his gradually crashing train of thought, when he heard a noise.

The ram skull with the empty eyes and black body was staring at him. The Rook was staring at him.

Michael couldn’t even scream this time. He knew it had to be a dream, a nightmare, it _had_ to be, but it didn’t make it any less terrifying. Worse still, he could see the thing’s body in the firelight now. It had an emaciated, starved look—legs too skinny, ribcage standing out in such sharp contrast compared to its stomach, looking like not much more than its odd, glossy fur and bones.

It probably wasn’t.

“Do you feel sorry for her?” the Rook asked mildly. Michael instinctively looked back at its head and regretted it immediately, averting his eyes once more.

“Yes,” he replied. Why did it even need to _ask_?

“Why?”

“She’s going to die.”

“I’m aware of that. I’ve come to take her away.”

Michael snuck a glance up at the skull. It was still in the same position, sightlessly staring at him out of its empty eye sockets. “…A-Are you the Grim Reaper?” That’s who he had always assumed took dead people away, unless it was God—but really, the monster before him could _not_ be God or any of His angels, so he supposed it really couldn’t be anything _but_ the Grim Reaper.

“Oh, no. You couldn’t pay me to take that job,” the Rook replied, the barest hint of amusement evident in its voice. Michael frowned in confusion. “I’ve merely come to take her away. Kill her, really. I won’t be the one to kill her physical body, at least not in the technical sense, but I’ll kill her and take her away all the same.”

It didn’t sound the least bit remorseful, either. Michael’s frown hardened into a scowl. “Why are you doing it, then? If it’s not your job—why would you want to kill anybody?!” he demanded, glaring at the skull.

“Why?” it repeated, seemingly taken aback by the question.

“Yes, why! Don’t you have any sort of regret or feelings or heart?!”

“Don’t raise your voice to me.” Michael ducked his head down and quieted, though he was still silently fuming. So this thing was going to kill Tuesday and apparently didn’t have a reason for doing so. How could that be? Even if that were true… Well, if it wasn’t set in stone, he was going to fight. “Don’t even think about it. _You_ were the ones who decided to kill one of your own in the first place,” it added, tilting its head again with a sharp twitch to the right. Its jerky movements were at odds with its smooth voice.

“But—”

“Don’t bother arguing.” The Rook moved its head again so that it was vertical once more. “I’ve already made up my mind, anyway.”

“…But _why_?” He had to know. He had to know why it felt the need to take Tuesday away, to _kill_ her.

“Because I _want_ to.”

“Why do you want to, then?”

The Rook seemed to contemplate the more specific question. After an agonizingly long pause, it said simply, “Because it will hurt you.”

Michael had no idea what to say to that. He had never met anyone—or anything—so spiteful before, anything that would kill others solely to hurt him. The fact that any creature could have that much hatred and violence in its heart was something he couldn’t fully comprehend. The fact that it was more than willing to exercise that cruelty was even more appalling.

“Besides,” the Rook said, taking a step closer and looming over him like it had just hours before, “Now you don’t have anyone left. I don’t have to compete with anyone else for your attention.”

“Y-You could have just asked, I would have—”

“Come now, Michael, let’s not be stupid. Would you have _really_ spent any time at all with me if you had anyone else in the world to spend time with? I would not be the first you’d run to in any situation. I can tell even now that you’re absolutely terrified of me.” There was definite amusement in its voice now, but it somehow still retained the tone of talking down to a misbehaving child.

He stared up at the Rook, scarcely daring to breathe. He half-expected it to continue speaking; it had sounded so desperate to talk and had almost _babbled_ with the way it prattled on. Still, as the thing was silent and seemed to want Michael to acknowledge it somehow, he croaked out, “I am. I _am_ terrified of you—”

And that was all it needed from Michael.

“Very good! As well you should be!” the Rook crowed, bobbing its skull head. “Never lose that. Even if you hate me as well, never lose your fear, understand? Just remember that I am the cause for everything. Everything you’ve lost, every misfortune you have suffered and _will_ suffer, it’s all because I _wanted_ them to happen. Remember that, and we will get along _swimmingly_.”

This was getting to be too much. Michael tore his gaze away from the monster before him, staring instead at the fire. It had come to him in another nightmare and said it was killing everyone he ever loved or cared about or _knew_ and it was really only trying to get a rise out of him, or _something_. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down. He was intensely aware of the Rook’s non-existent eyes on him, however. Michael tried telling himself it was a dream, just a dream, only a dream…

“You’re thinking this is another one of your human nightmares, correct?” the Rook asked curiously, jarring him out of his self-consolation. Michael cracked one eye open and nodded warily. Maybe closing his eyes around it wasn’t the best of ideas.

Then the Rook laughed.

Michael snapped both eyes open and stared at it. He knew it was laughter only because it would be the only response possible from the monster, but it hardly sounded anything like it. It was rough and hoarse and reminded him of sandpaper and people screaming. And here he thought he could possibly get any more scared.

“This isn’t a dream,” the Rook told him, cutting off its laughter abruptly.

“Y-You can’t lie to me, I _know_ it is.” Michael didn’t like how his voice shook, but at least he was able to string together a coherent sentence this time without an interruption.

“Really.” It wasn’t a question. The Rook then, with erratic, jerking movements, stood up on its hind legs. Michael reeled back, especially as its claws caught the firelight. It stretched its wings for a brief second before folding them around itself. The black feathers slowly melded together until the Rook was standing in a black cloak, with only its ram skull head visible above it.

The Rook leaned down and grabbed Michael by the hair, forcing his head back. Tears immediately sprang to his eyes from both the shock of the pain and the pain itself. “Does this still feel like a dream?!” it demanded harshly, pulling.

“N-No—!”

“Good!” The Rook adjusted its claws so that they were digging into his scalp. He dragged the boy upright before stooping down again to grab Tuesday by the arm. Michael was yanked back up again when the Rook stood up fully. Tuesday didn’t stir. The blond boy stared fearfully at her, trying to figure out if she was still breathing or not—but then, the Rook dug its claws even deeper into the top of his head. Michael grit his teeth and tried not to scream, ignoring the sensation that felt terrifyingly like blood trickling down his forehead.

Then the Rook was speaking again. “Since you are _aware_ this is not a _dream_ , we can continue on with the important things! Like how you are going to _believe me_ when I say I am going to take every damn thing in the world away from you! Including her!”

“Wait, no—!”

“Don’t talk back to me,” the monster snarled, shoving its claws in deeper. “Don’t you ever talk back to me again. Is this understood?”

Michael tried his best to nod, but the Rook’s grip made it impossible. “Yes,” he bit out.

The Rook unexpectedly threw both of them to the sand. Michael was immediately trying to stagger back up, one hand holding his head while the other reached out for Tuesday. The Rook crouched over her, fiddling with the sleeve of her sweater.

“Stop—” Michael realized too late that he had talked back again. His reflexes kicked in and he took a step back, arms now held defensively in front of him, waiting for more abuse. The Rook merely threw something at him before standing up once more.

“Keep it. It’ll be all you have to remember her by—oh, _wait_ , it won’t, will it? Because you will get to _eat_ tomorrow!” the Rook exclaimed in delight, grin clear in its voice. Michael looked down at his feet, where the thing the Rook had thrown lay. It was a silver charm bracelet, Tuesday’s silver charm bracelet.

With trembling hands, Michael bent down and picked it up. “N-No, I don’t want that, I don’t want her to d-die. I don‘t.” He addressed the bracelet in his hand rather than the monster holding Tuesday in front of him. Why was this all happening? Was it really all the fault of the Rook?

“…That’s too bad,” it replied unsympathetically. “Because she’s going to die. You were the ones who decided to kill her, and you’re going to be the ones who do it to her.”

“If we hadn’t decided that, would you still be here to take her away?” he asked in a small voice, afraid of the answer. He desperately hoped it would be a ‘no’, but knowing the Rook, even as little as he knew about it, it would say ‘yes’. Even if it was a lie.

“Oh yes. Haven’t you been listening, Michael? I’ll take away _everything_.” It thrust Tuesday forward, holding her upward under the arms. Her head lolled limply to one side. “Now say goodbye to her, Michael. This will be the last time you see her; don’t you want to bid her farewell?”

“Don’t say that!” Michael snapped, past the point of caring what the Rook did. It had already taken away his parents, his only family, his way home, and all those people on the ship, and now it was going to be taking away one of the last people in the world Michael could say he cared about. Even if he died from it, he wasn’t going down without a fight. Not anymore.

The Rook seemed to sense this. It tilted its skull head to one side, the bottom of one horn brushing against its shoulder. “…You and I will get along magnificently.”

Michael staggered forward, to do what he had no idea, but he never made it. Blackness overtook him.

And when he woke up again, the sun was shining brightly in the morning sky, Tuesday was gone, and a silver charm bracelet was hanging from his wrist.

 

 

The psychologist had given up on taking notes. He doubted he could get this story out of his mind, even if he’d wanted to. He also highly suspected it would be quite awhile before he would be able to sleep normally once more.

The patient across the table from him stared balefully at him, dark eyes daring him to say something.

He was never one to turn down a challenge, and moreover, it was his job to figure out what had really happened. “So… The Rook was the one who, er, killed Tuesday?”

“…In a way.” The sentence was terse.

“Then what really happened?”

“We… I… I woke up, and…” The patient was now looking from side to side, grasping at straws. Trying to form a coherent answer. The psychologist leaned forward slightly, an unconscious movement to try to get closer to the truth. “W-We had decided to do that… You know… And we—we needed food, we were so hungry—so hungry, starving, dying, we were so hungry with our stomachs always growling and losing weight and never finding any food and we were desperate and tired and we couldn’t do anything else we were so hungry we had to do something—”

“Please calm down!” The patient was losing grip again. The psychologist had realized early on that that tended to happen when confronting the nastier of the memories. And while the rambling told much about what had happened on that island, it was barely understandable and more often than not, the patient was stuck on a broken record loop, repeating the same things over and over while trying to mentally come to terms with it. The psychologist had run into cases with that problem in the past, but it was never easy to work with. “Take a deep breath and tell me what happened.”

“We were so _hungry_ and we couldn’t think of anything else we were hungry we had to do something—”

“No, tell me what happened,” he interrupted once more, adjusting his glasses. “Just the facts, please. You don’t have to tell me what you were feeling.” It was a cold statement, but a necessary one. Plus, what most patients didn’t realize that the _way_ they said something was usually more important than _what_ they said. Even if he was going to get this information by tearing the most traumatic moment of his patient’s life out by force, he would get it, and he would figure out how to help after that. One could only be fixed after they were broken, after all.

His patient looked down at the silver charm bracelet on that oh so thin wrist. It was absently tugged at, the dark, blank eyes above it looking blankly from side to side again. “…We were hungry, so we found a solution to it. We solved our hunger problem because we _needed_ to, because we were so hungry, and so we did the only thing that we could.” The words were starting to run on again, but there was a clear and conscious effort not to. The psychologist took notes. “We—We made straws and we drew them and the one with the shortest one was picked they lost and that way it was fair because none of us was any _better_ than the others not really and we were trying so hard to be fair—”

“Please, Michael. Just tell me what happened.”

“We drew straws and one of us came up short. It was fate. It had to be, right? The Rook was only the—the messenger or something like that he was only part of it, right? She suggested it, so that’s why she died, right? Was she wrong for that?”

“Just tell me what happened.” He couldn’t answer that question, not without either forfeiting his decency or making the situation much, much worse. “…Tuesday drew the shortest straw, didn’t she?” he prompted, as much of a lead as he could give.

“Yes. She did,” came the flat reply.

“What happened to her?”

His patient finally looked up at him. “We killed her. We killed her and ate her.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> for more information on how to obtain the rest of the novel, and/or (well, preferably and) the sequel, [please see this tumblr post here](http://skittidyne.tumblr.com/post/124856101552). it also has a teensy bit more information on the series as a whole!
> 
> thanks for reading!


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